


not asking for much (just your love)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Hydra Jemma Simmons, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma is a little under the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not asking for much (just your love)

**Author's Note:**

> I am SO BEHIND on comment replies, I'm so sorry! I wanted to get this posted tonight so I didn't catch up first, but I'll try to tackle those first thing tomorrow, I promise!
> 
> Title is from Pentatonix's _Water_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma’s not entirely certain what happens. One moment she’s in the middle of examining the results of a truly fascinating experiment, and the next she’s flat on her back on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Doctor Simmons!” The familiar (unusually worried) voice precedes a rush of footsteps, and within seconds Hicks and Ortilla appear above her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” she says, distractedly, as Ortilla and Hicks help her to her feet. “What happened? When did you two get here?”

While it’s not unheard of for the higher-ranking specialists to linger in Jemma’s lab when they’ve nothing else to do (Ortilla takes obvious and shameless joy in scaring away any of her subordinates who drop by with questions; he claims that if they’re not willing to stand their ground, their questions must not be important enough to waste her time with), they don’t tend to hang about when she’s visiting the other labs.

And as that’s by her own request (made after poor Doctor Zaytsev nearly caused an explosion by dropping a beaker when Warrington startled her), which people don’t often ignore, Ortilla and Hicks’ sudden presence is something of a puzzle.

“You fainted,” Ortilla supplies helpfully. He steps back a bit once she’s on her feet, though he doesn’t go far. Hicks remains fully in her space, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Capshaw called us.”

“Fainted?” Well that can’t be right. “I never faint.”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing pointedly to the floor from which she’s just been helped up.

It is, she must admit, a very fair point.

“You feeling okay, doc?” Hicks asks. “You look pale...and also flushed.”

That makes no sense at all, and Jemma means to tell him so. She’s shocked into silence, however, as he presses the back of his hand to her forehead.

“You feel warm,” he says, frowning, and moves his hand to Jemma’s cheek. “Do you have a fever?”

Hicks’ skin is cool against hers, and as absurd (and presumptuous) as the touch is, she finds herself leaning in to it. Though it’s far from impersonal, it’s not intimate, either; it’s just…nice.

“Is she sick?” Ortilla asks, looming over Hicks’ shoulder. He frowns at Jemma. “Are you sick?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says…although now that they mention it, she’s unhappy to note that without her work to distract her, the slight pounding in her temples she was able to ignore earlier has turned into a full marching band’s worth of drumming. And she’s a bit unsteady on her feet, still—though surely the slight aching in her shoulders and neck was caused by her impact with the floor. “Of course I’m not sick.”

Hicks appears skeptical, but before he can comment, Aldridge announces her arrival with a demanding, “What happened?”

“She fainted,” Ortilla tells her.

Aldridge gives Jemma a scolding sort of frown. “Did you eat breakfast?”

This woman and breakfast, honestly. Before Jemma moved in with Grant, back when she was living in an offsite apartment, Aldridge would always make her stop on the way to work to try some food or another. If she heard _breakfast is the most important meal of the day_ one more time, she may well have shoved her into traffic.

“Well?” Ortilla prompts when she doesn’t answer.

Reluctantly, she shakes her head. She was feeling terribly nauseous this morning—actually, her stomach is churning even now—and so she decided to give breakfast a miss.

“She didn’t eat lunch, either,” Capshaw (the traitor) volunteers. She’s hanging back, watching Ortilla, Aldridge, and Hicks with a strange mixture of amusement and fear. The fear isn’t a surprise; Capshaw is one of Jemma’s lower-ranking scientists, and likely she hasn’t spent more than twenty minutes total in the company of Grant’s specialists in all her time at HYDRA.

The amusement, on the other hand, is a little odd, but in light of the picture they must present, Jemma admits that there is cause for it—considering the way that three very deadly specialists are hovering around her like worried ducklings.

...And perhaps there’s something to Hicks’ fever worries, because _that_ sparks the mental image of herself as stepmother to Grant’s numerous and extremely murderous children. She shakes it off—and promptly loses her balance.

Hicks catches her, and Aldridge makes a chiding sound.

“You’re definitely sick,” she says disapprovingly.

Jemma would like to dismiss that assessment, but honestly, the longer they stand here, the worse she feels. Without her science to focus on, she really does feel horrid.

“Perhaps a bit,” she allows. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious, though. Some rest and some—”

“You’re not that kinda doctor, doc,” Ortilla interrupts, though not unkindly. “Let’s leave this one to the professionals.” He looks to Aldridge. “You wanna take her to sixteen while we call the boss?”

The sixteenth floor contains the medical suites, where doctors of every medical persuasion are available for consult by employees. Generally an appointment is necessary, but even Jemma must admit that _no one_ on the sixteenth floor, no matter how packed their schedule, is likely to turn her away.

No, that’s not the part of Ortilla’s suggestion she takes issue with.

“Oh, no,” she says, dismayed. “Don’t call Grant; he gets so fussy when he’s worried.”

“Yeah, well, he gets _shooty_ when he’s angry,” Ortilla tells her. “So sorry, but he definitely gets a call.”

“Besides, nothing wrong with being fussed over when you’re sick,” Hicks says cheerfully as he passes her over to Aldridge. (And while a part of Jemma resents being handed around like a toy instead of a person, she’s lightheaded enough by now that she does need the support.) “It’s fun.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jemma…says. Definitely says. She is a grown woman with two PhDs and an entire organization’s worth of scientists under her command. She did not just whine like a child. “I hate being ill.”

“We know, doc,” Aldridge soothes, wrapping a comforting (and supporting) arm around her shoulder. “You’ll feel better once we get you some drugs.”

As she’s steered towards the door, Jemma catches Ortilla and Hicks exchanging a look in her peripheral vision. There’s clearly an entire conversation being held by way of the simple eye contact, and she’s hit with a sudden wave of misery.

All of the specialists have a way of silently communicating, and seeing it in action always makes her long for the days when _she_ had a partner with whom she needed no words.

“I miss Fitz,” she says to herself, glumly.

Aldridge’s eyes widen in alarm. “Yeah, you definitely need a doctor. Come on.”

 

 

It’s almost as though Jemma’s illness was only waiting to be acknowledged. Following her fainting spell in the lab, her symptoms progress rapidly (to an almost absurd degree) and by the time she’s done with Doctor Cruz, she’s feeling positively wretched.

Admittedly, her appointment _does_ take a while. Not even Jemma’s status as the girlfriend of Cruz’s ultimate superior is enough to speed up the healthcare process; there are numerous tests to run and Jemma, more than anyone, knows that science works at its own pace.

(Not that that stops Aldridge from trying to speed things up by flirting; Doctor Cruz, sensibly, is utterly terrified.)

In the end, bearing a diagnosis of influenza and a whole host of medications with which to alleviate her symptoms, she’s ushered to the lift and ordered to get plenty of rest. At this point, she’s barely standing; she leans heavily against Aldridge as the lift rises towards the penthouse, keeping her eyes closed against the cruelly bright lighting.

“Inhumane,” she mutters into Aldridge’s shoulder. Surely lights _this_ bright are against some form of city ordinance—or at least the standards of human decency. What possible need could they have for illuminating every centimeter of a _lift_? “We really _are_ evil.”

“Whatever you say, doc,” Aldridge says, stroking her hair comfortingly. She’s very nice, Aldridge; Jemma has always liked her. “Almost there.”

The lift slows to a stop, and the doors slide open with a _ding_ that reverberates in Jemma’s skull. She moans, miserable, but is slightly distracted from her suffering by the way Aldridge tenses.

“Sir,” she says, and Jemma cracks one eye open to find Grant waiting just outside the lift.

“Grant!” With Aldridge’s assistance, she staggers out of the lift and into Grant’s arms, and she latches on to him with relief. “You’re home!”

He’s been away for nearly two weeks, and was meant to be gone for another six days. She does feel a touch guilty for drawing him away from whatever he was doing—but not guilty enough to regret his presence.

She ignores the exchange Grant has with Aldridge, though she presumes Aldridge is updating him on her visit to the doctor. Grant’s arms are lovely and solid around her, his heart a comforting rhythm beneath her ear, and she’s _missed_ him. Combined, his voice rumbling in his chest and his hand carding through her hair are almost enough to make her forget how horrible everything is.

Aldridge departs with a, “Feel better, doc,” and a brief touch to Jemma’s back, and then they’re alone. For a moment, Grant continues to simply hold her, but when too deep an inhale turns into coughing, he sighs.

“We should get you into bed,” he says, rubbing her back soothingly as she coughs. Once the fit passes, she collapses back against him with a moan that’s pathetic even to her own ears, and he kisses her hair. “You want a shower first?”

He knows her too well; a visit to the sixteenth floor always leaves her feeling unclean, regardless of her knowledge of the stringent sterilization procedures in play. And perhaps some warm water will help with the chill that’s set into her bones.

(And it is utterly unfair that she’s so cold when she has a _fever_. The human body is terrible.)

“Yes, please,” she says into his chest.

“Okay,” he says, and threads his fingers through her hair, tilting her head back so he can meet her eyes. “Next question: can you stand on your own for that long, or do I need to help you?”

A shower shared with Grant is never quick, and while her spirit is _very_ interested in a round (or seven) of reunion sex, her body is less so. All she wants right now is to curl up in bed with him and sleep; better to avoid taunting herself with what she can’t have.

“I can manage,” she says. “I think.”

“Comforting,” he mutters, and steps back. “C’mon, then.”

“I missed you,” she tells him, as he leads her slowly towards the bedroom. “Very much.”

His arm tightens around her, and he pauses to kiss her temple as he opens the bedroom door. “I missed you too. You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“I _wasn’t_ not feeling well,” she says, offended by the slight reprimand in his tone. Then she frowns. “Wasn’t not—is that right?” Usually she has an excellent grasp of grammar, but it’s so hard to think past the pounding in her head. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “But Ortilla said you skipped breakfast and lunch. And Aldridge mentioned you stopped work early yesterday. That wasn’t because you felt sick?”

Oh, honestly. Calling Grant home is one thing—and she does appreciate it—but did they truly need to give him _every_ detail?

“Our children are tattletales,” she mutters, and Grant pauses.

“Our what?”

“They were fretting,” she explains. “Like ducklings.”

She can feel him staring down at her, but she can’t muster the energy to lift her head from his shoulder. Instead she just leans against him, content to wait him out.

“Okay, then,” he says, after a moment, and continues steering her across the bedroom.

Only when she steps onto the freezing cold tile in the bathroom does Jemma realize that she’s not wearing shoes, and she stares down at her bare feet, perplexed.

“Where did my shoes go?” she wonders, curling her toes in.

“Aldridge had ‘em,” Grant says. “Said you took ‘em off to nap while you were waiting for your test results.”

“Oh, yes.” Now that he mentions it, she does have a vague recollection of deciding that if she was going to be forced to sleep on one of those horrible exam beds, she might as well be as comfortable as possible while she did it.

She also remembers that she didn’t put any socks on this morning, though she can’t quite recall why, and decides to move things along before Grant asks about it.

She’s mostly able to undress on her own, although she does require his assistance in removing her bra—she’s aching too much to reach far enough to unclasp it. Tellingly, he helps her without any sort of innuendo (she must really look awful), and he stays _very_ close, prepared to catch her at any moment.

…Which is fortunate, because she does lose her balance while stepping out of her knickers. He steadies her, and she clings to him for a long moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

It doesn’t.

“I’m not well,” she sighs, perhaps petulantly.

“No,” he agrees, and releases her with a little nudge. “Go on. I’ll be right here if you need help.”

She _doesn’t_ need help, mostly because she makes the shower as quick as possible, supporting herself against the tiled wall when necessary. The warmth of the water is lovely, but the steam compounds upon her earlier unsteadiness and dizzies her terribly. Even as short as the shower is, she feels worse by the time she shuts the water off.

She stumbles a little as she gets out, and Grant catches her against his chest before she can fall. Doing so basically soaks his entire front, but if he cares—or even notices—he doesn’t let on. He merely wraps her up in her overlarge towel and cuddles her close.

She rests her aching and spinning head against his chest, unable to help a very childish whine, and he kisses her hair. He doesn’t need to be told that the shower has only made things worse; perhaps her whining speaks for itself.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice pitched precisely low enough to soothe instead of aggravate her headache. “Let’s get you dried off and into bed.”

It takes some doing—she’s lightheaded enough now that she can’t truly stand without support, which makes drying and dressing a two-person operation, to say nothing of the need to do something with her wet hair so that it doesn’t become hopelessly tangled as she sleeps—but before long she’s dressed in her warmest pajamas and crawling into bed.

Grant takes less than two minutes to change into dry sweats, but she’s still more than halfway to sleep when he sits on the edge of the mattress. She curls away from her pillow to rest her head on his thigh instead, and he strokes his knuckles down her cheek.

“Why’re you up there?” she mumbles, a touch nonsensically.

He understands her, though, of course. “I have to leave.”

“Nooooo,” she whines, gripping his knee as tightly as she’s able. “Stay.”

He _just_ got home after ages away; he can’t abandon her now.

“Just for a few hours, baby,” he says, “promise. I need to check in with Markham and take care of some business before I tell Evie to make sure we aren’t disturbed for a few days, that’s all.” He pulls her hand away from his knee and lifts it to kiss her knuckles. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“ _Will_ ,” she counters, and he smiles.

“I’ll be quick,” he reiterates. “And then it’ll be just the two of us, all weekend, okay?” He shifts her back onto her pillow, then stands before her flu- and exhaustion-fogged brain can send the necessary signals to her limbs to move again. “Just sleep and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Sleeping won’t be a problem, even if he’s gone. She’s nice and toasty under the quilt—and a second blanket Grant must have used his ridiculous specialist skills to add at some point, as she has no recollection of seeing him fetch it—and her headache has lessened, now that she’s no longer vertical. It’s a challenge to even keep her eyes open.

But for all that she complained earlier about Grant’s tendency to fuss, fussing is precisely what she wants. She’s been lonely, sleeping and eating by herself these past two weeks, and though she was able to handle it while she was well, now that she’s ill she’s feeling needy. She wants to fall asleep in Grant’s _arms_ , not just their bed.

So even though it’s the absolute last thing she wants to do, she pushes herself up to sit as Grant steps away. Her head spins with the motion, and she’s forced to fist her hands in the blankets for balance, but she manages to resist the pull of gravity.

It takes somewhat longer for her stomach to settle enough for her to risk speech, but luckily it’s not necessary to call him back; he’s stopped at the foot of the bed to frown at her.

“What are you doing?” he asks, frown deepening as she shoves at her blankets.

“Coming with you,” she says, and braces herself to climb out of bed. It’s not likely to be pretty.

Before she has the chance to more than twitch towards the side of the mattress, however, Grant rounds the end of the bed to sit next to her once more.

“Baby,” he says, cupping her by the shoulders and guiding her to lie back, “no. You need rest.”

She doesn’t have the strength to fight off the gentle pressure he exerts on her shoulders, but she does manage to catch his hand before he can stand again.

“I need _you_ ,” she corrects.

She hopes she looks as pathetic as she sounds; surely _that_ would persuade him.

His face does soften, but the gentle kiss he bends to give her is discouragingly apologetic.

“I know,” he says as he tucks the covers back around her, “and I’m sorry. But if I don’t take care of these calls now, we’ll spend all weekend getting interrupted. Once this is done, I’m all yours, I promise.”

“You can make phone calls from _here_ ,” she argues, and is proud of herself for it. Thinking is like slogging through molasses, but she’s determined not to lose this argument. She’s spent far too long already sleeping alone; she doesn’t want to do it again when she doesn’t _have_ to. “You have a cell phone.”

“Jemma—”

“I won’t listen,” she promises. She knows Grant prefers to keep his operations separate from her—even now, he worries about the reality of his nature scaring her back to SHIELD—but honestly, it’s a miracle she’s even stayed awake _this_ long. “I won't hear a single word.  _Please_ , Grant.”

He sighs heavily, though the effect is rather spoiled by the pleased smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

(She doesn’t remind him often enough that she needs him just as much as he needs her. She should work on that.)

“Okay,” he says, “you win.” He nudges her, and—not without difficulty—she scoots aside to make room for him between herself and the edge of the bed. “But if you’re not asleep in the next five minutes, I’m gonna assume it’s ‘cause I’m bothering you and go outside, got it?”

She doesn’t bother to respond—she’ll be impressed with herself if she’s still awake in _two_ minutes. Instead, she waits as he arranges himself, back against the headboard and legs stretched out over the blankets, and then settles down next to him, happily curling to pillow her head on his thigh.

“I’m here,” he says, one hand stroking over her hair as the other unlocks his phone. “Now go to sleep.”

Jemma drifts off to the feel of his hand in her hair and the sound of his voice, a low, steady stream of what she thinks is Russian, and despite everything—despite the knots her stomach is twisting itself into, despite the pounding in her head and the searing pain in her throat, despite the fever that keeps alternating between freezing and cooking her bones…

Despite everything, she’s never felt better.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes its existence (or, well, its completion, since I started it AGES ago) to the fact that I've been sick for the last few weeks and have no super-hot boyfriend to cuddle with. Jemma is lucky and I am envious.


End file.
